


you're beside me, breathing (so loud)

by strangetowns



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M, Post-Canon, Summer, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 05:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9421046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetowns/pseuds/strangetowns
Summary: There is something about the summer, warm and bright and slow as it is, that makes Isak want to spread himself out, to close his eyes and let time wash over him like the tide. If he could only tell the hours to ignore him for a while, to march on past him and let him exist in the no man’s land between the mortal and the infinite.Just for today, he says silently to the unforgiving sun,let me pretend we can be like this forever.-Isak and Even in the summer time. Or: five times Isak kept his silence, and one time he didn't.





	

**Author's Note:**

> On this week's episode of, "the author apparently only knows how to write like two different tropes", I attempt to write short mindless fluff about boys doing summery things and things spiral wildly out of control. As per usual. I have, as the kids say, no chill.
> 
> Thank you muchly to [Lydia](http://boxesfullofthoughts.tumblr.com) and [rumpelsnorcack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumpelsnorcack/pseuds/rumpelsnorcack) for the beta read and listening to my endless complaints about how this fic just wouldn't do what I say, goddammit. Title comes from Lola Marsh's "[You're Mine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4kzhLgDmgzg)".
> 
> (Note: I am not Norwegian, nor do I have personal experience with bipolar disorder. If I have made any mistakes with regards to these issues, please do not hesitate to let me know.)
> 
> 2/3/17 - [asoidfgold](http://archiveofourown.org/users/asoidfgold/pseuds/asoidfgold) did a superb translation of this fic into French. Check it out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9562358)!

******I.**

The first day of summer, Isak wakes up, and Even is still in bed.

It feels a little like a good omen, mostly because Isak generally considers it a good thing when they're in the same place at the same time. There are a lot of benefits to that, like the warmth of proximity, or the gentle reminder, always welcome, that they are together. But the biggest one is simply that when it happens, Isak doesn’t have to miss him.

(Some might think it’s ridiculous that he's the kind of person who would miss Even minutes after he’s so much as left the room, but Isak doesn't agree. Not compared to all the other things being with Even makes him feel, the things that have not yet failed to feel too big for his chest, too big for his whole body to hold. It's like the last six months of his life have been one of Even’s cheesy epic love story movies. Now, _that's_ ridiculous.)

Anyway, since he is here right now, he should probably appreciate it as much as he can. Isak turns on his side, toward Even, to take in the sight and feeling of a beautiful boy in his bed. It's late enough (though, according to the clock, not actually that late, fuck, why is he awake, he wants to die a little) that there's a sliver of sunlight filtering in from the drawn blinds, and it falls gracefully over the planes of Even’s face like some type of pretentiously hipster movie poster. Isak takes the liberty of memorizing the image, like snapping a picture with the camera of his mind. Even’s closed eyelids, pale lashes dusting the permanently smudged shadows under his eyes. The sharpness of his nose, the soft curve of his cheeks, his jaw. The light setting his angles on gentle fire.

(Another thing that's ridiculous - no human being should have the right to look like a work of fucking art this early in the morning. And yet.)

At some point, Isak must shift positions or make some type of noise without realizing (but honestly, how is he supposed to pay attention to the things his body is doing when Even is _right there_ ) because Even stirs a little in his sleep and breathes out, a long exhale. He opens his eyes and smiles, softly.

“Morning,” he says.

It is unfair, and ridiculous, and at least a thousand other things Isak can’t bother to name that it only takes two seconds after he's woken up for Even to make Isak feel like this, like everything inside him is all light and fluttery and warm, like his lungs have forgotten how to breathe and like his heart has forgotten that it doesn’t know how to fly. He can see it now, his ridiculous excuse of an organ trying to flap its wings and falling flat on its face. Knowing himself, this is an image that could probably be a metaphor for his entire life.

(Still. He can't find it in himself to complain.)

“Good morning,” Isak answers, giving him a smile of his own.

Even’s smile unfurls into a grin, the kind that warms up every inch of his face and makes the corners of his eyes go all crinkly and soft. Just like that Isak’s heart feels too big for his chest, too warm, because his heart, apparently, has no idea how to be an actual, functioning heart. Before he can do anything about it, though (like say _I don’t like pop songs but for you I would actually tolerate them_ or _the way your smile makes me feel is what makes me believe in love_ or _god_ damn _, you’re beautiful_ or something equally disgusting and soft), Even beats him to it.

“Watching me sleep?” he says, raising his eyebrows. “That’s Twilight levels of creepy.”

Everything mushy and romantic and soft and gross inside Isak comes screeching to a halt. The statement is so incredibly, mind-numbingly stupid that Isak can do nothing but stare at him.

The corner of Even’s mouth twitches upward. “What?”

“Did you just,” Isak says, “compare me to Edward Cullen?”

“I don't see the problem here,” Even says. He’s clearly trying to keep a straight face, just as clearly as it’s not working. Serves him right, the bastard. “Twilight is the most iconic love story of our time.”

“Edward _Cullen_ \- “

“You definitely have the hair for it,” Even says, ruffling the hair on the top of Isak’s head playfully like he didn’t just insult the very core of Isak’s being _._

“I don’t have to put up with this,” Isak says. “Why am I putting up with this?”

Even grabs at his arm dramatically. “I know you’re seventeen, but how long have you _been_ seventeen?”

“Nope, I'm leaving,” Isak announces, and promptly rolls off the bed.

Or tries to. Even’s hand catches on his own, even in the midst of a fit of bright, wild laughter, fingers sliding easily through the spaces, and it's not a strong grip, but it's still not one Isak is really capable of breaking, even if he wanted to.

He looks back at Even, and their gazes find each other easily. Even’s laughter is calm, now, but he’s still smiling, the look on his face endlessly, unbearably fond. Isak’s third or fourth weakness, all punching him in the gut in the span of less than five minutes. He really is getting soft.

(Or it might be argued that he was never not soft in the first place. He would never make that argument, not in a million years, but if Even decided to, he wouldn't exactly talk back, either. Even knows him better than most.)

“Stay,” Even says, thumb brushing over the skin of his knuckles. “Please.”

Like how to get Isak to do exactly what he wants. He can't even be mad about being so predictable.

So he doesn't try to prove Even wrong, because doing that would basically be an unnecessarily convoluted way of lying, and it’s too early in the morning for dishonesty. He just climbs back into bed, and he stays.

(Later, still in bed, Even leans his head close to Isak’s, and sighs.

“It still surprises me,” Even says, “when I say something like that, and you listen.”

Isak doesn’t say, _What do you mean?_ Or _Why?_ Or _You shouldn’t be surprised, because don’t you trust I would always listen to you?_ He doesn’t want to ask questions that can’t be answered, or promise things that can’t be guaranteed. He doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, he presses a kiss to Even’s bare neck, and his cheek, and his mouth; and he closes his eyes, and he lets the warmth of the newborn summer fill him up to the brim.)

-

**II.**

The picnic was probably just an excuse for Even to drag him outside for a few hours. Isak would be perfectly content staying inside playing video games and watching Narcos for the dozenth time, but the weather today is actually kind of nice (not reminiscent of the eighth circle of hell, which is always a plus for a Norwegian summer) and it’s not like there would be any point to staying inside if Even _wasn’t_ there.

In any case, there’s no changing the fact that they’re out here now, in some field Even swears is the best picnic spot he’s ever been to (Isak tells him he’ll have to take his word for it, which sets Even off on a long, pretend-offended speech replete with gasped exclamations and dramatic hand gestures that basically boils down to, “What, you don’t trust me?” Of course Isak does, but admitting that over something as stupid as a picnic would undercut his carefully cultivated image as a not-soft person. He has a reputation to maintain). It’s definitely one of the most secluded places they could have picked, judging from the fact that they’re the only ones there. But maybe Isak doesn’t mind that so much. He’s had months to get used to the idea of being with Even in public and not just behind closed doors, months of kisses on the cheek and pecks on the mouth and endless heckling from his friends, months of learning how to look up and not down at the ground every time Even stands near him. Still, he suspects any couple would prefer this, the freedom to kiss for longer than a second, to hug and to touch with the knowledge that no one else is there to see or know, over most things.

(Here, after all, any smile Even gives, any laugh he tosses carelessly into the wind, would be all for him. Something about that thought makes Isak feel dizzyingly heady, like he’s standing on top of the tallest mountain. Like he’s standing on top of the world.)

It doesn’t take long for them to finish the food they brought, mostly because they didn’t actually bring that much (“It’s called packing light,” Even had said, to which Isak had responded with a skeptical, “Uh huh,” to which Even had responded to by tackling him to the floor in retaliation, which may or may not have led to certain activities that cut significantly down on time they had to pack food in the first place). When they scarf down the last of the desserts, Even falls back onto the blanket and sprawls his arms out wide, invitingly. Isak, of course, can do nothing but oblige, and lets himself curl into Even’s side. He wraps himself up with the feeling of _together_ like a blanket, soaking in the warmth, the solid reliable weight of Even next to him. The sky above them is cloudless and infinite, and looking up at it makes him feel endless, too.

(Something about this, the warmth from the sun, the warmth of Even’s body, the solitude, away from the world and away from time, makes Isak feel relaxed, at ease, unhurried. He could let his eyes slip closed, could embrace the lazy summer day and stay here a long while. Or he could pretend that he can do that. Same difference.)

“I’m proud of you,” Even says.

“Mm,” Isak says, feeling a little sleepy, a little content. “Why’s that?”

“You’ve barely complained since we got here,” Even says. “I think that’s a new record.”

“Wow,” Isak says, no longer feeling sleepy at all. “Wow, that’s so rude.”

“But true.” Even squeezes lightly at his shoulders.

“Do you want me to complain? I can complain.” Isak starts ticking things off on his fingers, furrowing his brow in deep pretend-thought. “Let’s see, the walk here was too long, the sun is way too hot, and your cooking kind of sucked, not going to lie - “

Even cuts him off with a kiss on the mouth, abrupt as it is warm, and soft. Isak could complain about that, too (being shut up with a kiss, like, really, how cliched can you get) but he finds he doesn’t really want to.

At some point they stop kissing, but their foreheads and noses are still touching, so Isak isn’t too upset. Even has his eyes closed, but Isak thinks he would rather keep his open, would rather try to memorize what Even’s face looks like from this angle when it’s filling up his vision like he’s bigger than the whole world.

“I don’t want this to end,” Even says, close to Isak’s mouth.

There’s a lot of things Even could mean, things he doesn’t want to end but things that probably will anyway. He could mean this moment right here, right now, because the passage of time is as relentless as it is inescapable. He could mean the day, beautiful as it is, because long as summer days are in this country, the sun never does fail to set. He could mean the summer itself, because there are months of it, what feels like forever, but of course, isn’t. He could even mean them. Isak hates to think of _them_ in terms of inevitabilities, but he supposes there’s no denying that they’re there.

Isak doesn’t ask. He takes in the silence for as long as he can, leans his head back so he can see the way the summer wraps itself around Even like it was always meant to be there. He always looks so soft in the light, soft and warm and fragile. But not breakable. Never breakable.

(Some boys belong in the sun, Isak thinks. Even is one of them.)

-

**III.**

The day starts when Even attempts to wake him up with kisses. It doesn’t work, mostly because in the process of trying to get the right angle he accidentally kicks at Isak’s shin which startles him into disorienting consciousness, but even in the throes of the early morning Isak can guess what game he’s trying to play.

“I told you, you didn’t have to do anything,” Isak groans into his pillow.

“I absolutely had to do something,” Even says. “I had to do everything.”

“Did ‘everything’ really have to involve waking me up at - what time is it - _fuck_ , seven thirty in the morning?”

“Well, not really,” Even admits. “I was just kind of bored lying here by myself.”

That gives Isak some pause. Even’s made plenty of positive steps in terms of his recovery process these past few months, but there are still some things that are difficult for him, that might always be. Like the bad nights, and sometimes the bad days. Isak doesn’t know what it’s like to have to struggle against the same demons every day, every night, just for the next day to come and bring them back from the dead as if you’d never fought them at all. He doesn’t know what it’s like, but he does know it’s something to remember about Even. His mind is one he’s stuck with pretty much for the rest of his life, and there’s nothing Isak can do to fix it, nothing anyone can do to fix it. There’s nothing Isak can do except be there, and hope that it’s enough.

“Did you sleep well?” Isak says, choosing his words with care.

(It doesn’t matter how long they’ve been together; he imagines they could be married and in their eighties and he would always endeavor to be careful about this, about them. It’s not that this isn’t familiar to him, or that he doesn’t want it to be. It’s simply that Even doesn’t deserve carelessness. Not from him, not after they both learned what he was capable of fucking up just because he didn’t think about what he said. From now on, he wants to think about every word that leaves his mouth. Even deserves nothing less.)

Even looks at him for a long moment. He reaches out and cups Isak’s face with his hand, fingers light against the shell of his ear. He sighs.

“Not as well as I could have,” Even says.

This feels important, somehow, his honesty, even though it’s been something he’s been practicing for a long time now. Gone are the days Even would minimize his troubles, would shove them into a box in his chest and throw away the key until the feelings clamoring for his blood got too noisy, too ambitious, and burst out of his heart in a dangerous flood. Gone are the days Even would say, “Don’t worry about me,” because gone are the days Even believed he doesn’t deserve Isak’s worry. Gone are those days, and in their stead are the days Isak says, _I worry_ , and Even lets him.

“That’s sad,” Isak says.

Even raises his eyebrows. It’s clearly not a reaction he’d been expecting. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” Isak says, matter-of-factly. “You deserve to sleep well and have good nights, and it’s sad that the universe won’t let you.”

This, too, Even did not expect. He huffs out a surprised laugh. “The universe is a cold-hearted bitch.”

“That’s kind of harsh,” Isak says. “I like to think of it more as a well-meaning asshole.”

(Any universe that brought them together, after all, can’t be all that bad.)

Even smiles at that, and says nothing more. Instead, he presses their foreheads together, and then their noses, and then their mouths; and it takes Isak an embarrassingly short amount of time to forget he was supposed to be annoyed about being awake in the first place.

At some point, Isak finds himself tucked comfortably in the crook of Even’s arm. It’s the perfect morning for staying like this for as long as they can, all warm and soft and slow, just the way summer mornings should be. Judging Even, though, and how he’s been going on about this day in particular, Isak doesn’t think that’s really an option right now.

“So I assume I’m going to have to get up at some point,” Isak says for confirmation, heaving what he hopes sounds like a long-suffering sigh.

“Yeah, probably,” Even says. “I’ve got Plans. With a capital P.”

“Plans with a capital P,” Isak repeats. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means I’m going to make you breakfast in bed,” Even says. “Then you’re going to wax poetic about how great my cooking is, then we’re going to cuddle for a few hours, then Jonas and Magnus and Mahdi are meeting us at the movie theater, so we can’t be late for that.”

“Can’t we just skip straight to the cuddling?” Isak pretends to plead, putting on his best pout. “I don’t really care about the rest.”

Even pokes at his side, a gentle admonishment. The one disadvantage of a long-term relationship is that Even has built up immunity to all of his best tricks, which is utterly unfair because Isak is certain he has no built-up immunity to Even at all.

(Then again, maybe he’s glad for it. Maybe he’s glad to know Even still has this profound of an effect on him. Maybe he’s glad to know love doesn’t fade that easily.

Or maybe he’s just the biggest loser in the world.)

“You care about your friends,” Even says. “And Jonas says you owe him beer.”

“Of course he does,” Isak says, rolling his eyes. “Apparently, I always owe him beer. It’s the law of the universe or something.”

Even presses a kiss to Isak’s forehead. “And the other law of the universe,” he says, “is that you’re going to enjoy the _fuck_ out of today.”

Isak reaches up and takes hold of Even’s neck, just to make him stay for a little while longer. “Is that a promise?”

Even smiles, and leans down, and kisses Isak on the lips. Isak hums into his mouth and tightens his grip, tangling his fingers in Even’s hair. Before he knows it, though, Even’s already pulled away and is dancing out the room, tossing laughter over his shoulder.

The asshole. What an awful way to say, _Yes_.

In the end, he doesn’t mind the time spent with his friends as much as he said he would. The film is some type of generic-looking action thriller Isak is almost surprised Even actually consented to see, except Even shrugs and says, “What? I like all kinds of movies.” It still doesn’t actually end up being that good, but the five of them by some miracle end up having the theater to themselves, and they spend the whole two and a half hours hurling insults at the screen and laughing loudly at all the corny parts (“IT’S LIT!” Magnus yells in English at one of the explosions, throwing up his hands. Absolutely no one is amused). By the end of it, Isak’s chest feels strangely light, like a balloon that can go nowhere but up. He wants to believe that’s true of himself, too. That the trajectory of the rest of this day, this summer, this life, will be nothing but uphill. He can’t know if it’s something to believe in. But he wants to anyway.

(He tells himself the feeling in his heart, buoyant, light as air, has nothing to do with the fact that he held Even’s hand the whole time, and everyone noticed, and no one said a thing. Has nothing to do with the fact that they’ve been in public so many times together and yet Isak still finds things about it he hasn’t quite gotten used to, like the knowledge that people see them, and that’s okay, that doesn’t matter, not to anyone, not to him. Has nothing to do with the simple, quiet acceptance of his friends, still just as significant to him as it felt the very first day, even if they don’t think about it nearly as much as he does.

It’s not the most convincing lie he’s ever told.)

They part ways soon after leaving the theater (“Go spend time with your man,” Jonas says with a shrug, “but you owe us a pre-game this Friday,” in typical nonchalant Jonas fashion), but Even and Isak don’t go back to his place for a while. Instead they wander through streets they’ve never been on, taking in the city around them, taking in the day, taking in each other. The sun, hanging low in the sky, seems in no rush to get to the edge of the horizon, and they are in no rush to return home, either.

(Isak wishes, with a longing as fierce as it is sudden, that it could feel like this all the time. Not just in the summer. Not just here; not just now. But life has a strange tendency to move forward too fast, and Isak still hasn’t quite gotten used to the thought of the inevitable ending of all things.)

“Hey,” Even says, pulling Isak abruptly away from his thoughts. “Can I tell you something?”

Isak glances at him. “What’s that?”

Even slings an arm around Isak’s waist, pulling him closer, and plants a light kiss on his cheek. Isak doesn’t flinch, and he doesn’t pull away. Long gone are the days when he would have.

“Happy birthday,” Even says, grinning with a warmth that could rival the summer heat.

There are a lot of things he could answer to that. He could say, _Thank you_ , or, _I was with you; of course it was happy_ , or even, _I didn’t think it was possible for someone to care so much they’d give me such a perfect day as a gift._

He doesn’t. He just ducks his face into Even’s shoulder, and tries to hold back a smile of his own, and fails.

-

**IV.**

If Even stays at Isak’s place for more than a few days, there eventually comes a point when he’ll go out onto the back step and sit there by himself in silence. Mostly, Isak leaves him alone. He’s had time to get used to the idea of trusting Even with space, to find the right balance between caring about him and caring too much. Even assures him that he could never care too much, but still, as much as Isak wants to be there for him, he thinks it would be better if he gave Even the choice of his company rather than forcing it upon him. So Even goes out onto the back step, and for the most part, Isak lets him come back inside on his own time.

Sometimes, though, he doesn’t. Sometimes, Isak brings him ice cream.

“What’s this?” Even says as Isak approaches, surprised smile lighting up his eyes. Isak has to take a moment to appreciate how good he looks, all stretched out on the steps and leaning back on his elbows, flannel shirt tied around his waist and pencil tucked behind his ear. Then he remembers Even is waiting for an answer, and clears his throat.

“Your favorite flavor.” Isak glances down. “And two spoons, I guess, but I don’t have to - “

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Even scoots over and pats the empty space next to him. “Come here.”

They eat the ice cream in silence, straight out of the tub, for some time. It’s late afternoon, so the sun isn’t as much of a bother as it could be, but the heat is still lingering, and the sweet coolness on his tongue still feels like a reprieve.

(The silence is a little like that, too. Theirs has always felt like an old friend, even from the start.)

“Good stuff,” Even says, gesturing vaguely with his spoon.

Isak raises his eyebrows. “You were the one who bought it, I’m pretty sure. Eskild’s been giving me shit about you leaving all your stuff here. Give it another few months, he’ll probably start asking you to pay rent.”

“Another few months.” Even swallows down a mouthful of ice cream. “Another few months, and I’ll be at university.”

It’s not Isak’s favorite line of thought, the end of summer taking Even away from Oslo for a year (or, more accurately, longer than he wants to fathom). The deceptively casual way Even brings it up now, though, the way Isak’s words feel like lumps in his throat, makes him think maybe he should have thought about it. Maybe he should have just sucked it up and gotten used to it.

(And maybe he didn’t want to have to get used to the thought of Even leaving some day. Because they can tell themselves the distance won’t be forever all they want, but the truth is, they don’t actually know.)

“Is that what you’ve been thinking about out here?” Isak says.

Even doesn’t look at him. “I think about a lot of things out here.”

Isak isn’t sure he could look away from Even if he wanted to. There’s a certain kind of majesty to the seriousness on his face, eyebrows drawn together and mouth a tight line, beautiful as it is worrying. He wishes he could reach out and smooth out the wrinkles on his forehead, soothe away the dark circles under his eyes, but some things are outside his control, and Even’s feelings are one of them. All he can do is nod, and accept the statement at face value. If Even wants to talk about it, he will.

Turns out, maybe he doesn’t. What he does do is lean back on his hands and exhale, long and low.

“Thanks,” he says.

Isak shrugs. “No big deal. It’s just ice cream.”

“Still,” Even says, and now he glances at Isak, and smiles, a delicate thing. “It’s good, not to be alone.”

(Six months ago, Even might have said, _It’s good, not to feel alone_. The difference is subtle, and small. But not too small for Isak to notice.)

-

**V.**

The first time they swam together, Isak was the one who pushed Even into the pool. This time, he’s not sure who started it. There was some playful banter involved, some pushing and pulling, and then two big splashes, one after the other. Or that’s probably how it happened, but to Isak it feels like they fell in at the same time, the rush of the water swallowing them up until there’s nothing but this, coolness against his skin, and Even’s face next to his, close and blurry.

They surface together, too, and Even’s grinning at him, so bright and infectious, Isak can’t help but smile with him. He can understand the reason behind his happiness. In a lot of ways, this moment, over half a year later, feels like the first night they kissed.

Of course, in a lot of other ways, it’s entirely different. They actually planned for a trip to the pool, for one, and they’re wearing swimming trunks instead of the remains of laughably bad Halloween costumes. There is no small, confused child to interrupt them, no laws to break. This time, they kiss above water, just because they can.

And this time, there is no uncertainty in the space between them, no dancing around silent questions that have haunted them for weeks, no _Will he, won’t he_ . Instead, Even’s shining eyes say, _Yes, absolutely._ And Isak answers, with a half-smile: _I know_.

They do actually swim for a while. They have the whole pool to themselves for some reason, and they spend half an hour swimming laps, splashing each other, laughing and talking about nothing in particular. You can only do so many things in a pool, though, and at some point Even hauls himself onto the ledge, and Isak follows him.

They lie side by side, Isak facing Even, the pavement warm and dry under his skin. He counts the water droplets scattered across Even’s face, his shoulders, his bare chest, or tries to, anyway. He wonders how long it will take for them to evaporate, for the heat to whisk them away as if they’d never existed in the first place. He wonders if the thought is worth being sad about.

“Didn’t do all that much swimming, did we?” Even says.

“I don’t mind.” Isak brings his hand to the line of Even’s jaw, letting his thumb dance over the pale ridge. “But look at you, getting tired so quickly. You’re an old man.”

Even’s eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me, but I did at least five more laps than you did.”

“You did not do five more laps than me,” Isak scoffs. “What do you take me for?”

“Okay, fine,” Even says, barely managing to suppress a grin. “How many laps did we do, then?”

“I did ten thousand,” Isak says.

Even snorts, an undignified sound. “I think I would have noticed if you did ten thousand laps.”

“No, I actually did nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine while you were in the bathroom,” Isak says. “Meanwhile, you did, like, two. The rest don’t count because of bad form.”

Even’s laughter bursts forth fully now, unable to be contained. It is, Isak is sure, the most beautiful sound in the world.

(Almost as beautiful as Even himself. He is beautiful in any light, at any time, but right now, under the blazing heat of the sun, the shadows that usually linger at his edges are gone, and he is blindingly resplendent. He is a child of the sun, Isak thinks. He is a boy of summer.)

In its wake, they settle into a familiar sort of quiet. At some point, Isak’s hand finds itself in Even’s hair, and he lets it stay there, all curled up in the damp strands, pads of his fingers brushing lightly against his forehead, the top of his skull. Even’s eyes slip closed, and a ghost of a smile rests on his lips, lingering. Isak wants to skim his fingers over the surface of his face, wants to trace the lines of his eyelids and cheeks and mouth until he remembers nothing but the feeling of Even under his touch. He figures he’ll get there eventually. They’ve got all the time in the world.

(Or it feels like they should. Same difference. Or, at least, not a difference he wants to fixate on.)

“What are you thinking?” Even says.

Isak brings his hand down over Even’s warm skin, just like he wanted to, slowly. The curve of his forehead, the tip of his nose, his slightly chapped lips. He stops there, and Even turns still under his touch, utterly motionless, save the rhythm of his breathing. Isak is mesmerized by it, the feeling of Even’s exhales whispering against his fingertips, the warmth and the softness of his mouth. He presses the pad of his thumb against it, a careless gesture, almost an afterthought, except Even’s breath shudders against his skin in response, and Isak feels the way it makes his fingers tingle in the very core of his gut, and suddenly he doesn’t think he is capable of being careless about this at all.

(He doesn’t want to ruin this. Not just this moment, but _this_ . This feeling. This everything. There is something about the summer, warm and bright and slow as it is, that makes Isak want to spread himself out, to close his eyes and let time wash over him like the tide. If he could only tell the hours to ignore him for a while, to march on past him and let him exist in the no man’s land between the mortal and the infinite. _Just for today_ , he says silently to the unforgiving sun, _let me pretend we can be like this forever_.)

That’s what he’s thinking. But he doesn’t know how to say it aloud, doesn’t know if the words exist. Now, touch, and physicality, and heat. These are the things he knows how to speak with. He leans his head forward and kisses Even, long, leisurely, as if they have more time than they really do. And Even brings a hand to the curve of Isak’s neck and kisses back, because Even speaks this language too, and he knows what it looks like when Isak says, _I don’t want to let this day go to waste_ . He knows how to say, _Me neither,_ in the silence, the gaps between their words _._

(Isak hopes it’s enough to know that they both mean it.)

-

**+I.**

For the most part, the days of summer slip past him unnoticed. Isak hardly remembers what he does, but at the same time he’s not really sure the details actually matter that much. He spends time with his flat mates, with his friends, occasionally with his family. With Even. There are worse ways to waste the summer than with the people you care about. He spends much of it feeling caught up in a dream-like haze, a never-ending series of pleasant and pleasanter days, happiness more of a constant than an accident, and as the days go by it becomes increasingly harder to tell where one ends and the other begins.

It is for these reasons, primarily, that when Even says, “What do you want to do with our last day of summer?” the words catch him off guard so badly.

(“Caught off guard” is a bit of an understatement. He doesn’t just feel caught off guard, because that would imply mild surprise, as if he’s only been steered slightly off course, only had his world gently rocked. He feels frozen, like all of his insides and his brain stopped functioning all at once. Paralyzed, as if struck by a bolt of lightning. Shaken, as if the whole earth has tilted under his feet and is threatening to swallow him whole.

Because the thing is, he’s spent so much of the summer thinking about its end, but now it’s here, and he didn’t even see it coming. He feels helpless, in the face of it. He doesn’t know what to do.)

“Shit,” Isak says, feigning nonchalance. He’s not sure if it works, not sure if he’s really capable of trying to figure out of it works. “You don’t mean today?”

“End of the week,” Even clarifies. “But seeing as I’ll be spending the next few days balls deep in packing, I figured you might want to do something special.”

Something special. He hardly knows where to start with that. He’s never been one for big romantic gestures, never felt like he had the imagination for it. And this would have to be something big, and romantic, and mind-blowingly incredible. It would be nothing less than Even deserves. So how could he possibly do something that important justice?

What could he possibly do for Even that would be special enough for the end of summer?

“I think you should choose,” Isak says.

Even raises his eyebrows, apparently taken aback. “Are you sure?”

(Isak doesn’t know why Even would be taken aback that this is the most special thing he can think of. It seems almost too obvious, to him.)

“Surprise me,” Isak says, shrugging.

Even looks at him for a moment, as if searching for something. Isak doesn’t know what he could possibly be looking for, what he could possibly find just by staring into his eyes. He hopes whatever it is, it’s not anything too bad.

Even grins, then. “Well, okay,” he says. “But don’t be too disappointed if it’s not what you expect.”

(Isak doesn’t think that it’s possible for Even to ever disappoint him. But that seems too obvious to point out, too.)

“There’s no way you could do something I wouldn’t expect,” Isak says confidently. “I am the master of prediction. I am absolutely never surprised.”

“Is that a challenge?” Even says, laughing. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“No,” Isak says. “It’s a fact.”

Even laughs again, softer. He leans in, close, closer, enough that Isak can feel the heat of his lips inches away from his skin. Close enough that the force of his gaze burns into Isak's vision, close enough that he can’t look anywhere else. But when Isak tries to close the gap, Even moves away, just enough that the distance is kept between them. Even smiles, but it’s not a warm smile, not a bright one. It’s a tantalizingly slow lift of the corner of his mouth, a dangerous spark in his eyes. He brings his hands up to Isak’s face, painstakingly gentle, his thumbs ghosting across his cheeks, skimming along the ridge of his jaw. He presses his fingers into the pulse at Isak’s neck, and it pulls a gasp from somewhere deep inside Isak, involuntary. It’s then that Even surges forward and kisses him, hard, insistent. Isak gasps again into Even’s mouth, parts his lips, drinks in the heat, drinks in Even. Even’s fingers press deeper into his skin now, sliding into the curls of Isak’s hair, and Isak is helpless to do anything but let himself melt into Even’s touch, to melt into it and drown in it.

Even’s fingers tug sharply at Isak’s hair, but as Isak gasps for the third time in less than that many minutes (honestly, who even is he, this isn’t a fucking rom-com) Even pulls away abruptly. Isak stands there and blinks at him dumbly, and Even grins the most shit-eating grin Isak has ever seen.

“If you say so,” Even says.

“I hate you,” Isak says, breathless. “I actually hate you.”

Even laughs, caressing his cheek with his thumb fondly. “Do you really?”

 _No_ , Isak thinks, even as he rolls his eyes. _Of course I don’t._

After that first conversation, the topic of the last day of summer doesn’t come up again for the rest of the week. Between the packing and the preparations for the beginning of school, Isak almost forgets it happened in the first place. He figures if Even doesn’t mention it, it’s nothing to worry about. So he doesn’t.

And so the last day of summer comes. They wake up next to each other. They eat breakfast, they shower, they dress. They go about their days. It feels just like any other. Isak almost convinces himself Even just didn’t plan anything at all until, at dinner, Even puts down his fork and says, “Let’s go for a walk.”

Isak raises an eyebrow. “Is this your way of surprising me?”

Even shrugs, hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Why don’t you come and find out?”

Isak half expects Even to blind-fold him or something equally ridiculous, but Even just shakes his head and says there’s no need.

“You’ve been here before,” Even says. “There’s not much point in hiding it.”

“I thought you were trying to surprise me,” Isak teases.

“It’s not about the destination,” Even says. “It’s about the _journey_.”

Isak can’t help but roll his eyes at that. “You’re a pretentious fucker, you know that, right?”

Even pecks him on the cheek. “Pretentious fucker, and proud,” he says. Isak doesn’t doubt it.

Still, Isak doesn’t realize what the destination actually is until they get there. Maybe it’s the night time, how the darkness makes even the most familiar streets seem like strangers. Maybe Isak just has the worst sense of direction. Either way, it takes Isak a moment of standing there, taking in the surrounding trees, the hills, the vast expanse of the sky, before he realizes - it’s the same field they had their first picnic.

“Okay,” he says, somewhat confused. It’s not like they have any particularly emotional attachment to this place aside from one good afternoon. “It’s nicer looking in the day time.”

Even ruffles his hair. “Wait for it,” he says. “And come on.”

Isak supposes he has nothing better to do than to follow his lead. They make their slow way to the middle of the field, just as deserted as it had been the first time they came here. Even sits down in the grass, leaning back on his hands, and Isak sits next to him, their legs pressing warmly together. They sit there in silence for a moment. In the darkness, Isak can only make out the vague outline of Even’s face, but still he looks at him, and says nothing. After all, these silences have always said so much on their own. Anything he could think to add would just ruin them.

“Look up,” Even says into the darkness, and Isak tilts his head back, and looks at the sky.

It is filled to the brim with stars.

His breath catches in his throat, at the sight of it. He has never seen the night like this, never seen the dim light of so many faraway constellations, more than he could possibly count. His vision swims with the sheer number of them. It’s almost unreal, like looking at a picture in a book, except pictures could never communicate the sheer vastness of the cosmos, how close and how far away they feel at the same time. He is utterly small under the infinity of the universe. He has never felt so big.

He doesn’t want to stop looking at it, doesn’t know if he can. He gets it, now, why Even would choose this. They’ve lived so much of the summer in the daylight, under the sun. But the night is just as beautiful. Just as mesmerizing.

“So, master of prediction,” Even says, “did you predict this?”

Isak tears his gaze away from the stars, a bit unwillingly, and discovers that Even is staring at him. Was he looking at him the whole time?

“No,” Isak says, quietly. “I didn’t.”

The world around them is still, and silent.

“And are you disappointed?” Even says.

Though it is dark, Isak knows where Even’s body is, the knowledge almost instinctual. He barely has to think about it to lean forward until their foreheads touch, to reach out and let his fingers curl in the hair around Even’s ear. The motions feel as natural to him as breathing. And he breathes; and Even breathes with him.

“No,” Isak whispers.

Their lips meet softly, and sweetly. They’ve shared many kinds of kisses this summer. Slow kisses, fast kisses, heated kisses, chaste kisses, morning kisses, night kisses. This one feels just like any other. It is nothing new to kiss the boy that he loves. It is nothing new to kiss him with the knowledge that they no have nothing to hide. It is nothing new, but it is special, regardless.

At some point, they end up lying on the ground, arms and legs tangled together, foreheads close, hearts closer. Isak wonders if they are invisible to the universe above them, if the stars are utterly indifferent to their existence, or if they see this, two boys existing in soft and warm tandem, and they know that they are in love.

For once, he doesn’t mind the thought. Let the stars know their story tonight. Let the whole universe know.

“You look like you’re thinking about something,” Even says.

Isak glances at him, or the shadows of him. “Do I really? How can you tell?”

“I can read you,” Even says. “Like an open book.”

“I’m not an open book,” Isak protests. “I’m - the opposite of an open book. I’m a closed book.”

“Wow,” Even says. “Brilliant answer.”

“Shut up,” Isak says, kicking lightly at Even’s shin. “I’m leaving.”

Even’s arms tighten around Isak. “No, you’re not.”

 _No, I’m not,_ Isak agrees silently, and buries his face in Even’s chest. Even, admittedly, gives the best hugs. It would kind of be dumb of Isak to let that go.

“But what are you thinking?” Even says, apparently determined not to let this one go.

“I’m thinking, ‘why do you always ask me that question’?” Isak looks back up at Even, raising his eyebrows.

Even looks back, steadily, fondly. “I just like hearing about the thoughts in your head,” he says. “They’re good thoughts.”

Normally, Isak would laugh at that, how ridiculous the statement sounds, or at least rebut it. He doesn’t think the thoughts in his head are particularly that good, compared to the thoughts he could be having. Particularly stupid, maybe. But right now doesn’t feel like a normal moment. Maybe it’s the night air. Maybe it’s the stars. Maybe it’s something else. Isak doesn’t know what it is that makes him take Even’s question seriously. But in the end, he does take it seriously. He answers it with the first thing that comes to mind.

“I think,” Isak says, “I’ve been dreading this the whole summer.”

Even hums. “Dreading what?”

“This,” Isak says again. “The end of it. I knew it would come. But I didn’t want it to.”

Even’s hand squeezes around his shoulder. “Why didn’t you want it to?”

“Because I was afraid of losing you,” Isak says. “Because I was afraid of the summer taking you away from me. Because I still am.”

As soon as he says it, he knows it’s the truth. It’s the truth he woke up with the very first morning, the truth he lived with every day after that. The truth he didn’t want to exist. The truth that lived on in him anyway.

But it hurts less than he expected, to let it go. It feels like what he was meant to do all along.

Even is silent, for a long while. Isak thinks he’s okay with that, with soaking up the quiet between them and letting it wash over him gently. The seconds stretch by, turn into minutes, and Isak thinks Even won’t say anything, and Isak is okay with that, too.

Then, for the second time this night, Even really, truly surprises him.

“Summers were never meant to last,” he says.

Isak swallows hard. “I know.”

Even’s other hand comes up to Isak’s jaw, lifts it gently. In the darkness, their eyes still find each other. It’s almost as if Even’s eyes shine with the light of the stars. Almost as if they each contain their own galaxy.

“But you know the thing about summers?” Even says softly, his words so gentle Isak’s heart almost breaks just to hear them.

“What’s that?” Isak says, just as softly.

Even leans down and kisses him on the mouth. Now, even after all of these days and nights, the feeling of it, of this, of them, of together, never fails to make Isak’s heart stutter in his chest. And it’s slow, this kiss. Slower than anything. But it fills up his heart and his lungs, fills him up with this new yet familiar feeling of _enough_.

They break away, and Even brushes his hair behind his ear, and smiles.

“They always come back again,” Even says.

It strikes something in Isak’s chest to hear those words, something resonant and strange. And it takes a moment, a moment of lying there in Even’s warm and steady arms under the endless night sky, a moment of perfect, beautiful silence, but he realizes - it’s the feeling of his heart beating steadily in his chest, whole and unbroken.

Isak looks into Even’s starlit eyes, and lets himself smile back. It feels easy. It is.

(He really does belong to the summer, Even. To the summer days, and to the summer nights. To the heat and the fire of the day, and the quiet reliability of the night. To finite, endlessly beautiful times.

And it’s enough, to live through those times and make it to the end of them. It is enough.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ici-bas, on respire à deux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9562358) by [asoidfgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asoidfgold/pseuds/asoidfgold)




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